Annsfire, Diver and Sommers

Distant Music


Life was a party I crashed clumsily,

a voyeur, a wallflower,

standing on the sidelines of weddings, births,

nearly everything that binds the social fabric.


A shy stranger in a room

full of other people’s friends,

my little plate of gender rolls

dipped in the bitter sauce of obligation;

small, wilted canapés on a tarnished platter.


I arrived with little more than my youth,

fleeing my shabby kitchen

that came alive at night,

its counters and floors awash in roaches;

it was there I prepared dinner

and plotted revolution.


Pesky relatives claimed a husband

could pull me out of squalor

but, to me, their stories were but cautionary tales,

peppered with maybes and should-have-beens.


They swore I would rue the day

I walked out of their party

yet, I still savor the moment I opened

that fated door.


Beyond it lay an outcast’s world;

mountains of treasure scattered

in bright and jumbled piles,

a veritable carnival of disorder.


I heard a circus-song of odd harmonies

a merry-go-round of alternatives,

striking every chord in my imagination,

resounding, vibrating, seducing

with wild and discordant song.


As I listened every hair rose up

and stood at attention.


Moments later,

I found myself dancing.

Joan Annsfire is a librarian, a writer and a long time political activist who lives in Berkeley California.  Her poetry, short stories and non-fiction pieces have appeared in various literary magazines, anthologies and web sites including previously in Poet’s Basement on Counterpunch. In her blog, lavenderjoan: the personal meets the political.

Uneasy Summer


In curve of rock and driftwood

I shift under sun-sleeked skin

& drift

upon avoidance


A rush of dragonflies shimmers blue

while metallic birds with cluster loads

etch tracks

across oyster-shell skies


In the stealth of dwindling light

leaves turn to bruised purple

bloodied spindrifts

embroider the dying haze.


A heron, gun-metal grey

folds orange stilts & retreats

like others…

camouflaged by shadows


Grass bends exhausted

Beneath the gathering dew.

Cobwebs stretch like nerves.

Images ghost-walk behind my eyes.


In ravaged countries

sleep, cashmere-soft,


the broken & besieged


A tongue of wind

licks me


breaks the connection


Relief carries me

towards love.

I climb the home-hill

to amber-spilling light.

(Previously Published in Ascent Aspirations Magazine)

Linda Diver’s work has appeared in several publications including two Paragon Collections, Minus Tides and Bread ‘n Molasses.  When not writing, she studies music and takes a keen interest in geopolitics.


Elegy for Francis


 (On the first anniversary of his death, February 11, 2012)


In the tangle of cottonwoods along the stream,

I discover, after standing a moment to watch,

the subtle movement of quiet life within the nettled branches,

barren now in February, the month when you were lost.


Nothing is right with this scene.

February should be cold, but it’s not.

A tepid chill, as if winter could not

make up its mind to be cold, as if

it got lost among the wars and disasters

that are now the season of our lives.


A year with neither flow nor rhythm―

we laughed without joy and wept in sorrow so deep

it altered our very nature, transformed us

into new and unfamiliar beings, strangers to ourselves,

like winter, which is no longer itself,

changed forever from the season we knew,

into a volatile thing, frightening in its mildness,

harsh & oppressive when it is cold.


One could pass the gray cottonwood grove in full stride

& never notice the dark-eyed juncos and

black-capped chickadees flitting among the branches,

or the rustle of squirrels and rabbits in the dry leaves,

but they’re there, sometimes gone before

I spot the place they were, so well do they blend into

the impenetrable jumble of boughs and branches,


As you are, some days, when the flash of your

silhouette appears across a room or in a passing car,

and my pulse quickens & I shudder

with a terrifying rush of hope

that dissolves before it becomes itself, the thing it is,

like winter, which is here but not here,

present, yet absent. This is how we suffer,

in the presence of your absence, the winter that isn’t winter,

for what will spring be without ice and snow,

without deep and lasting cold to preserve the life that must sleep,

or signal to others, those bluebirds and finches I’ve seen,

that they don’t belong here now and should be gone?


Farther on, along the path, the glare

from the pond as the sun rises

is nearly blinding. A gaggle of geese glides

over unfrozen water, which ripples in countless

starry flashes of light—false light

that should reflect from crystalline snow and gray ice―

so the geese appear in silhouette too,

cardboard cutouts of themselves. (Why are they still here?)


I’d like to tell you how the shimmering light

and graceful motion of geese on the water

offer the promise of hope, of a new beginning,

or maybe inspire a serene spiritual image

to lift my mood and liven my step;

oh, but that’s too maudlin for you, too sentimental;

too laden with the phony glow of a Hallmark movie―

soul-candy, I’d call it. You’d like that.


No, your ‘spirit’ inhabits us in surer ways,

in memories we keep, stories we tell;

in the new people we’ve become

by knowing you in this new way.

We keep you with us as the cottonwood grove

keeps the quiet life within, the rustlings

and flittings, the persistent flow of change,

as seasons change, not from one to another,

but each within themselves.


You taught me to hear the earth breathe,

and so it does, & so do we, with you

to sustain us as life persists. Through us

you live; as we breathe so do you, quietly,

as you inhabit this strange and awful

winter of our lives.

Bob Sommer is the author of Where the Wind Blew.  He blogs at 


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